


Well and Truly Home

by Minxie



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Landing in L.A. doesn't mean Adam's home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well and Truly Home

**Author's Note:**

> **Prereaders:** SunShinyDay5762  
>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction using names and faces associated with actual trufax people. I do not know these people in any way, shape, or form outside of what they show the public. Which, IMO, is a very sucky thing. Just sayin'.  
>  **AN:** ACK. I needed a break from work and I wanted porn. Instead I got welcome home fic that has plotty romance in it. FML. I just wanted the goods, boys… srsly, just wanted the dick.

Adam steps off the plane in L.A. and sighs. It is good to be on familiar ground again. Even if the grand scheme that is his life still has the Earth tilted kind of sideways. He's wanted this, this high of being a professional, of being a recognized, recognizable performer for so fucking long.

His lips quirk softly. He has that now: the contract and the tour and some of the most loyal, rabid ass fans known to man.

It's utterly exhausting.

He spies the pap and reminds himself not to let his bone-aching tired show, to offer a small grin and keep pushing through. Thank fuck he followed Monte's advice and sent his luggage ahead. At least that is one less thing for him to worry about now. One less thing for him to have to wait for.

Sliding into the car, he fires off a tweet. Something easy and generic about being home. If the pics are out there, and they will be in short order, the fans will know. And they'll be waiting for him to check in.

Their concern always punches him in the gut. They're all so sincere in their desire for him, for his entire crew, to be happy and healthy. Well, they are for the most part. He just tries to ignore the more over the top few that manage to make it through the wall he's built around himself. He reminds himself to take it all in stride, to mix the odd with the awesome and let the whole thing be amazing.

He pulls out into the traffic and drives on instinct, pays more attention to the idiots around him than to the direction he's going.

His intention is to go to his mom's. To hug her tight and have something light to eat and then veg in her guest room until he finds the wherewithal for the last two shows. Because as much as he's wanted this, now he just wants a costume change. Wants to put Adam Fucking Lambert in a box and drag on the worn and comfortable Adam: freckled and gay and fun.

Paris helped. To a point. Because even there, even on break, he was still Adam Fucking Lambert: watchful for the paps, watchful of his behavior, watchful of his appearance. Having Sauli there, understanding and available and reminding Adam of Brad with his easy smile and happy-go-lucky nature, had been pretty nice too.

Except they both knew Sauli wasn't who Adam wanted beside him, witnessing the epic that was a Paris night followed by lazy, midmorning sex the next day.

When he finally hones into his surroundings, when he shakes loose of his wandering thoughts, his lips curl into another grin. His head may have said 'go to mom's,' but his heart, his body, took him to where he really wanted to be.

He pulls his car around to the back, finds a secluded spot to park, and cuts the engine. Adam gives himself a minute and then a minute more to think. To ponder if he really wants to do this right now. If maybe he should go to his mother's and shower and nap and then, when he's had time to call ahead, to see if they're still on the same page, come back. Or, if the answer is no, lick his wounds in the comfort of his own bed.

His phone goes off with a text and, laughing as he reads it, his decision is made.

Brad barrels into him before he has his boots kicked off and his keys tossed on the counter. Adam holds him tight, lifts him until Brad's legs slip around his waist and his ankles lock together in the small of Adam's back. Smiling, Adam murmurs, "You're like an octopus."

"Fuck but I missed you."

Adam buries his face against Brad's neck, his breath dancing over skin as he sighs. "Would've be here sooner, _should've_ been here sooner. Wasn't my idea to stay away until the final shows."

That had been all Brad. Telling Adam over Halloween to be sure to act like a rock star. To make sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll more than words. To live it and breathe it and _be_ it. To not come back home until the tour was over and then… Then if Adam still wanted this, was willing to make it work… Well, then Brad would listen to him.

"Was the right thing to do," Brad mumbles, the words vibrating against Adam's neck. "You had to be sure."

Adam stumbles to the couch, lips grazing over Brad's neck and jaw and temple in little chaste, I-can't-believe-you're-real kisses. Arms and legs twined together, they fall onto the couch in a tangled heap. All familiar but new, changed by time and distance. And growth. Because god how they've grown, matured.

Somewhere along the way they became adults.

Adam drags his fingers along Brad's chest, up and over the sharp relief of his collarbone, until his hand is splayed around Brad's throat, thumb snugged under Brad's chin and his fingers spread wide and curling under his jaw. "I was sure before the tour even started."

Brad's eyes flutter shut and he leans into the grip, into Adam. "I had to be sure you were sure."

"I did what you asked." He did. He tried so hard to not think about Brad every fucking day. To go out at each stop, to have fun. To get drunk and mack on pretty boys. To have that tour fling, to fuck his way through Europe. He tried his damnedest to do exactly what Brad had asked.

And failed miserably. Even in Paris, with a replacement at his side. Because no matter what, it was Brad who was on his mind.

"You did."

Brad's fingers smooth the hair at the back of Adam's neck, intimate and knowledgeable. Nothing on the tour, not a single kiss or fuck or night out relaxed him the way those fingers do, the way Brad always does.

"And?" Adam hates the needy thread in his voice, hates the way the hand on Brad's waist grasps harder. He's surely leaving fingertip bruises, something that will show tomorrow, will give proof of the fear he has right this fucking minute.

"You're here, right?"

"Yeah," Adam murmurs.

"This where you're staying?"

Adam knows Brad isn't talking about tonight. Isn't talking about living arrangements at all.

"It's where the most important part of me has always been." And that is the truth. No matter where he was – Germany, Bali, Paris, the whole world over – his heart has been right here. Captured and owned by Brad Bell.

Brad shudders, the tremors working their way from Brad and into Adam, echoing unanswered questions, unfulfilled need between the two of them

"Adam," Brad whispers.

It's more plea than anything else and Adam responds physically before verbally, his fingers tightening around Brad's throat, his hold going from easy and lazy to demanding, needing, _wanting_.

"We need to move, baby. Right now." Adam licks a path over Brad's cheek, traces along the edges of Brad's lips with his tongue. "We need to move or I am going to fuck you right here."

Silently Brad moves off Adam's lap and, hands clasped together, pulls Adam to a stand. And then they're falling into bed and curling around each other, kissing and hugging and just being, and the whole new but familiar feeling assaults Adam again. Brad tastes the same, all bright sunshine and mischief along with the chocolate he has scattered all over the apartment. And he fits, _they_ fit the same, nestled into together with Brad's head tucked under Adam's chin, or in against Adam's neck.

It's the same, but not. The need, the want isn't the frantic pace of the past. It's slow and gentle, tender to the point of painful. It's something tangible now, something more than sex and desire. More than two boys, hardheaded and independent, out to conquer the world together.

It still has all of the potential, all of the passion and the heat. That was never their problem. But now it includes them earning it, working to understand each other, to move with each other by asking and answering and making concessions. It's fluid now, fluid in its very being. A seamless blending of the two of them.

It's the cornerstone change in what was and what is.

They strip each other slowly. Take the time to touch and taste and relearn. Fingers dance over new scars and lips press against remembered birthmarks and freckles. Adam avoids the places that make Brad frown – like the back of his knees and the knobby rise of his ankles – and spends time marking and tasting the ones that make Brad sigh – just behind his ears – and laugh – the jut of his hipbone.

He works Brad open with his fingers, takes his time moving from one to two to three fingers, until, when he pulls his fingers free, they're both slick with sweat and shaking with need and Brad is grabbing Adam's forearm and whispering a litany of, " _Adam, Adam, Adam…_ "

"On your side, baby." Adam keeps a hand on Brad's hip as rolls to the left and drags his leg up high against his chest. When the rubber is over his dick and he's coated himself in the remnants of lube shining on his fingers, Adam stretches his body out behind Brad, pressing his chest in tight and flush against the curve of Brad's back.

The position doesn't allow for fast. Don't even allow for deep penetration. Instead it gives Adam access to everything he wants more than he wants his release.

Pushing one arm under Brad's head, wrapping the fingers of their hands together, Adam holds Brad close and kisses his neck and his jaw, trails his lips over skin in a haphazard motion. He sucks on Brad's ear and worries the skin with his teeth, drags his free hand over Brad's hip and lets his fingertips brush along Brad's cock.

He rolls his hips in a slow, steady cadence and just lets the feelings wash over him. He wallows in the warm glow of safety and trust that being here, with this man, brings. Between a single thrust and retreat, he sighs, "Brad."

"Yes."

Then together, without a word spoken between them, they roll until Brad is face down on the bed and canting his hips up and back, begging with words and deeds for _more_ and _faster_ and _now, now, now, dammit_.

Adam growls low in his throat and, wrapping a hand on either side of Brad's waist, tugs back until they are both up on their knees. The air around, the intent of each movement, shifts. Becomes a crazy haze of lust and need and _want_ that mimics and, at the same time, mocks their past.

Because now, even in the white noise that comes with well-earned release, color is exploding through Adam. Reds and blues and purples all mixing and harmonizing into something that feels close to perfect. _Is_ as close to perfect as they've ever been.

Pulling out, Adam rolls to his back, whines wordlessly until Brad follows him, then Adam squirms, pulls and tugs and pushes, until they're chest to chest. He drags his hand, covered in a hot mess of sticky come, up Brad's chest, and closes slick fingers around Brad's throat.

He breathes in, takes in the smell of sweat and chocolate and _Brad_ , and, leaning in to kiss him, hums.

"I missed you," he mouths against Brad's jaw. "Missed you, missed this."

Brad's eyes sparkle, happy and sated. "Welcome home, baby."

And, yeah, with Brad in his arms and wearing nothing but Adam's scent, Adam realizes he is finally well and truly home.

 

* * ♥ * *


End file.
